


Warmer

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (more angst than porn), Angst, Angst and Porn, Castration, F/M, Guilt, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Semi-Public Sex, Sharing Body Heat, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9088855
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: “I'm cold,” she says once more, like that explains everything.





	

Neither of them speaks, and neither of them sleeps. Someone has to keep the watch, although they both know they won't be much good if the Boltons' men show up – but Brienne isn't hard to wake, and they're better off with her fully rested. It's probably not necessary for both Sansa and Theon to be awake, but Theon would rather share this awkward silence with her than hear her scream in her sleep, or share those screams. Mayhaps he should try and talk to her, idle chatter to clear his head of the part of him still screaming _you have to go back, Lord Ramsay will punish you!_ but he no longer knows how. Once upon a time they would have talked so easily – about clothes and riding and all sorts of silly, pointless things. But Theon doesn't have the words for her anymore, all his words are _your mother_ and _Bran and Rickon_ and _Winterfell_ and _Robb_ and _sorry_ , and they all feel so painful dripping off his tongue it's enough to make him wish Ramsay had cut that off too.

Sansa doesn't speak to him, but she does smile, a weak, bitter thing, like she's practising for someone who might deserve it. Theon makes a stab at returning it, although that's another thing that used to come to easily that is now lost to him.

He's surprised when he feels her getting close to him, burrowing against his hollowed-out chest. Her back is still to him, they don't face one another, but somehow she picks up his confusion. “I'm cold,” she explains.

Theon stares into the dying flame over her shoulder, fire the same colour as her hair. He remembers holding her after they crossed that river, trying to warm her with his broken, ruined body – trying to use it for something good. And he remembers how she held _him_ , firmly, tightly, desperate not to lose grip for a second – like she wanted him, needed him, loved him. Like they were doing anything other than just trying to keep themselves alive.

She shudders as the gooseflesh fades from her skin, and her long soft hair – not hideous and matted like his, for Ramsay let his wife keep the appearance of a lady – tickles his chin. He winds his hands around her waist, pulling her closer – and briefly thanks the gods he feels no swelling there. She doesn't stop him.

In his arms she squirms slightly, and he thinks she's just trying to get comfortable against his hard, jutting bones – but with her in his lap like this, he can't help but remember what she would have been rubbing herself against, long ago, and what he would have thought any woman who did such a thing wanted, when he was someone else. He closes his eyes. He is not that person anymore, and besides – there is nothing there for Sansa if she did want it, and how could she?

“Theon,” she whispers, leaning into his neck – and oh, the thrill of hearing her whisper his name, the name he thought he'd never hear again, until he heard her spit it with hatred, and then he thought he'd rather be _Reek_ for the rest of his days than hear that again.. She has gotten so tall – she always was, but she's a woman grown now ( _you've known Sansa since she was a girl, now watch her become a woman_ and then he wants to drive a knife through his eye), at her full height. “I'm cold.”

He wraps his arms more tightly around her, not sure what else to do – he clings to her like a child would a ragdoll. She made him a ragdoll once, when she was only six, and he laughed at her and told her Ironborn men didn't play with stupid girly dolls (he was only nine). That made her cry, which made Robb punch him. He thinks Robb wound up with the doll, and Theon pretended not to stare on jealously as he and Sansa got up to the most fabulous adventures with it.

She's shivering, the snow, not as harsh as it was, melting in her hair. He wishes he could be warmer for her. She is probably warmer than him, and despite himself, he can't stop seeking comfort in that warmth. He knows he doesn't have the right.

A shaking breath and he feels her grab his hands, winding her long smooth fingers through his broken, battered ones. _She's going to tell me to let go._ But she doesn't, instead he feels her guiding his hands upward, toward her chest, smoothing over her nipples – so hard with cold he can feel them through the thick woollen dress. “I'm cold,” she says once more, like that explains everything.

_Perhaps she is just cold, maybe it hurts,_ but even Sansa's not that naïve – if she ever was, she isn't anymore. Theon rubs it her nipples clumsily, not wanting to let the wool scratch, but Sansa just sighs and sinks further into his embrace, squirming against where his prick once was. She gasps as he accidentally catches her with a ragged thumbnail. He's about to pull back, to beg forgiveness, to beg to keep the thumb when she says “Harder.”

Theon doesn't understand, but he does what he's told, rubbing her nipples until they fade back into her breasts, and then starts to knead and grope at the flesh itself. Sansa moans, as loudly as she dares with Brienne and Podrick sleeping but a few feet from them. For a moment, Theon thinks of Ros, how proud he was of how she used to moan and beg for him – as if he didn't know she was faking it all for his coin – and then he has to press his lips against Sansa's skin (but he cannot let himself bite her) to smother a laugh. He used to fuck Ros and think of fucking Sansa (or sometimes Lady Catelyn, or even once or twice Robb, although he never would have admitted that – until Ramsay forced him too) – one day, if the Gods and Lord Stark smiled on him and gave him the girl's hand. Now, he fucks Sansa (or as close to it as he can manage) and thinks of Ros.

What did happen to Ros? Is she still in King's Landing? She was always kind to him, kinder than she needed to be, and Theon hopes she's happy. He hopes she's the best whore in the capital and every single lord spends his coin with her, and she never has to want for anything. He doesn't think it's terribly likely, but he hopes.

“Touch me,” Sansa tells him, and Theon does.

_Ramsay's the only man who's ever touched her_ , Theon thinks with a lurch of nausea as Sansa groans and writhes against him. _She can bear the thought of him being the only one. But she can't bear the thought of giving herself to another man either._ Theon, who both is a man and isn't, is the perfect compromise. He's glad he can help.

With a firm grip on one of her teats, his other hand – the one with three fingers – makes its way down, hesitantly pinching her heavy dress. Sansa holds her breath. _She'll tell me to stop_ , and Theon cannot tell if it is a hope or a fear. But she lets that breath go, and nods, and Theon, ever-obedient, slides the dress up her legs.

In the low, flickering firelight, it's hard to tell the difference between bruise and shadow, and Theon is glad. She wears no underthings, which surprises him until he realises, Ramsay probably didn't let her have any. No wonder she's so cold. Theon has to banish the thought from his mind so as not to be sick on her, so he grabs her thighs as firmly as he dares and listens to her moan as he runs his twisted fingers up the sensitive flesh.

“Theon,” she whispers again as she closes her hand over his own, guiding him towards the red curls between her legs.

He takes a deep breath and settles his chin on her shoulder, briefly looking over to where Brienne and Podrick sleep. Once, he would have been so proud of himself for this, the perfect pure Lady Stark letting him put his fingers in her cunt where someone could wake up and see.

But he just wants to please her. Hesitantly, he runs one finger along her soft pink folds, and blinks in surprise at how wet she is. Sansa suddenly gasps, and Theon almost jumps back, afraid he's hurt her – but she grasps his hand tight and doesn't let him. “It's alright,” she says. “It's just cold, that's all.”

Of course his hands are cold, they are both so cold, lost in the snow like this. The fire has almost gone out, once they are done one of them will have to add more wood to it. Theon closes his eyes and breathes in once more, trying not to panic. He once would have done this without even thinking about it – he never really was one for finishing a girl off once he'd had his way with her, but he did always like how even the girls too obsessed with the maidenhood to take his cock couldn't resist having a finger or two in there instead. Theon supposes that's all that's left to him now.

He moves his finger further down, slowly pushing it through the hot, tight entrance – he has to be careful, he can still feel the scars Ramsay left, the places Maester Wolkan had to sew back together with shaking hands and a broken voice. Sansa holds her breath, then lets it out with a shudder and a sigh as Theon buries himself to the knuckle.

“Does that feel good?” he breathes against her neck – and gods, he wants to kiss her neck, but he just can't bring himself too. Kissing her neck makes him think of kissing her cheek at dances and on her birthday, it makes him think of years past and dreams long forgotten and people long dead, and _Robb_ , and neither of them wants to remember all that right now.

“Yes,” she says, moaning softly as she starts to thrust slowly onto the finger. “Gods, Theon – you can move.”

_Why would she let me do this to her?_ Of course, he knows why. But that doesn't mean he can believe it. Slowly, he starts to push back and forth, looking down and watching her flutter around his scarred skin. She groans and throws her head back against his shoulder, and with her eyes closed in pleasure like that she almost looks happy.

Some strange boldness Theon long thought lost to him (perhaps the same boldness it took to jump from the Winterfell walls with her, the same boldness it took to grab her hand) bubbles in chest chest, and he finds himself with a second finger at her entrance – but he waits for permission.

She gives it quickly. “Go on,” she says, and he nods, slowly pushing his second finger inside – gods, she's so _tight_ , no wonder Ramsay tore her so – he's still petrified of ripping one of those scars open, for if she starts bleeding here there's nothing they can do about it. He's trying to be careful, but she's squirming and moaning and – Theon can feel his blood rushing south, even if there's nowhere for it to rush. He's felt phantom pains before, often, for Ramsay did all he could to bring them on, but never phantom pleasures.

He has to move slower now, even as she moves like she's desperate for him to move faster, and so to make it up to her he brings his other hand to rub at her tiny pink nub – that looks unmarked, and Theon thanks the gods that Ramsay didn't think of – or didn't get around to – cutting it off.

Sansa bites her lip to keep down a cry. It's surprising they haven't woken Brienne and Podrick, really, although maybe they have and the two are just pretending to be asleep, not wanting to deal with something so strange. “Theon,” Sansa gasps and – she's going to come, he never thought he'd see a woman come again, he never thought he could make a woman come again and he never thought he'd see _her_ come.

“Does that feel good?” Theon asks and just, for a second he's himself again – or he's the him he dreamed of being; proud, handsome Theon Greyjoy with beautiful Sansa Stark in his lap, making her beg for more.

She moans and turns her head and – she knocks him off his feet, for she grabs him by the back of his neck and _kisses_ him, and it's not much of a kiss – the angle is awkward, it's just a dry smashing of their frozen lips – but _why, why, why._

Sansa gasps, bites his lip, and peaks.

He can feel her shuddering through it, rocking back and forth on his fingers, her fluids dripping down his palm. Once he thinks she's done he's quick to pull his fingers out and hold his hand up to the low firelight, checking there's no blood there. It's hard to see, but he thinks he's clean. He didn't break her any more than she's already been broken.

Sansa seems to know what he's doing, and squeezes his thigh comfortingly. “I'm alright,” she tells him. “You didn't – it felt nice. Thank you. I needed it to feel–”

She's trying to explain herself, he realises. She's trying to explain all the things he explained to himself. “That's okay,” he says. “I mean, I'm glad I could–” he can't figure out how to shape it all – his guilt and gratitude and his fear – into words. Even now, Theon Greyjoy is better at touching than he is at talking.

Sansa accepts this with a sigh, relaxing into his chest – Theon wonders if she might fall asleep, here in his lap. Suddenly, she squeezes his thigh again. “Theon,” she says as if she's only just remembered something very important, “do you want me to–?”

_Oh._ Her words cut off as she realises she has no idea what she could do. Theon closes his eyes. There is, probably, something Sansa could do for him – Ros used to tease him, say there were things she could do to him that would blow his mind, that she could make him come without even touching his cock. He would snarl and slap her hands away, pretend the thought didn't interest him. He doesn't think she believed him.

Those things are all that is left to him, but he doesn't – he doesn't want Sansa to do them, here and now. If he lets her do that, then she knows that's all that's left to him, she knows he will never be what he once was. And perhaps she knows that already, but just in case she doesn't, he's not ready to see her realise.

“No, that's – that's fine,” he says, which is possibly the worst word for it. “I don't need to – I just want to help you, that's all.”

_I'm just grateful you'd let me touch you at all._

He expects her to ask something like _are you sure?_ But she doesn't, she just nods, and slowly stiffens in his arms. She must be thinking better of the whole thing now – realising who she just let touch her; the man who, while he might not have murdered her brothers, he still betrayed her other brother, he still stole her family home and killed its servants, and he's still the reason Bran and Rickon have vanished and no-one knows where in the Seven Kingdoms they could possibly be. She might not have let him take her maidenhead, but still, once they reach the wall, how will she explain this to Jon Snow?

_If Robb wouldn't kill me for everything else I did, he would for laying a finger on his little sister,_ and Theon almost laughs.

Sansa yawns. “I'm tired,” she murmurs.

_Are you?_ “I'm not surprised,” says Theon. “Go on, get some sleep. I'll keep a lookout.”

“Surely it's Pod's turn by now. Aren't you tired?”

Yes, he is. But he shakes his head. “Don't worry about me.”

And she doesn't, she pulls herself up and her skirt down, walking over to bury herself in her cloak, and try to sleep. Theon watches the fire dwindle, and grabs some scraps of bark to throw in it, but it doesn't do much.

He watches as Sansa drifts off, looking peaceful for once, and then he stares into the fire's embers, leaning in for what little warmth he can get. He wishes she could forgive him if he was still the man he once was, the man who committed his crimes. He wishes she could forgive him if he wasn't the only one here to keep her from the cold.

 


End file.
